


(Don't) Put The Blame On Me

by AlyssiaInWonderland



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Past Torture, Self-Esteem Issues, Trans Character, Transphobia, Young Leonard "Bones" McCoy, Young Spock (Star Trek), but its happier than it sounds i swear!, i have no clue how to tag this, its got the slightest hint of spones in the future, spones if you squint i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 23:09:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssiaInWonderland/pseuds/AlyssiaInWonderland
Summary: Young Len McCoy is just going about his life and reading Grey's Anatomy.Young Spock ran away from his past life, and is injured badly.They meet, and manage to help each other just a little.





	(Don't) Put The Blame On Me

Len took another bite of his peach, enjoying how the skin broke under his teeth easily, letting the sweet, tangy fruit cover his senses. The sky was almost entirely blue, with some sparse, scattered clouds scudding through it at a leisurely pace. His perch in the tree was conveniently placed next to a small split in the branches, in which was wedged a book – a recent edition of Grey’s Anatomy. He nibbled the last of the flesh off the peach stone, and then threw it as far as he could into the field belonging to their nearest neighbours – a fallow field, so no harm done as far as Len was concerned.

He licked up the juice on his hands, along with a reasonable portion of dirt, which he rationalised as just some gritty minerals, though his mother would have regarded it as filthy. Wiping his fingers carefully on his jeans to remove the rest, he extricated the book and opened it, settling in his precarious position, to read by the light of the sun before it would set, and he would have to go back inside.

The sunlight rested softly on his messy brown hair, the leaves casting confusing shadows over his face and body. He seemed thoroughly distracted by the patterns, and eventually set aside the well-worn book in favour of watching the shadows playing on his skin. Tears pricked at his eyes, and he dashed them away fiercely. It was, he has already decided, too beautiful a day for it to be crushed by something so prosaic as crying.

All the same, words echoed through his head, pulling him from his refuge in studying and nature. ‘ _Why couldn’t I have had a daughter_?’ it hissed, viciously. ‘ _Why don’t you ever want to learn from me? What could you possibly think is better about copying your father? You’re just like him._ ’ The voice was cruel, cold, everything he hated. It was far too close to emotionless for his comfort. ‘ _I wanted to dress you up and have you appreciate it, but you have to be so boyish!_ ’. Len flinched, hands flying up to grip his hair tightly and pull at it, until it held enough pressure to bring him some relief.

“Carpal bones, bones, carpal bones.” He whispered to himself, rocking back and forth a little on his branch. “Scaphoid, trapezium, scaphoid, trapezium, okay, you got this. Bones. You know these. Trapezoid, lunate, pisiform, triquetrum, hamate, capitate. Carpal bones.” He repeated the list, the anxiety in his voice slowly ebbing, until he was able to stop rocking, and release his hair, leaving it twice the mess it had been before. He’d get in trouble for that, but it couldn’t be helped.

He took a deep breath, the heat in the air weighing down his lungs, and went back to watching the shadows flickering over his skin and the fallow field. The grass in it was high, at least up to his waist in height. As his tears evaporated, leaving salty residue itching on his cheeks, he noticed the grass swaying in a direction the wind wasn’t moving. Gripped by a sudden, reckless curiosity, he dropped down from the tree, moving right up to the gate into the field. Careful to check nobody was watching, he clambered over the fence, and stood just inside the field, staring at the clumps of grass that were rustling strangely.

“Hello?” He said, softly, feeling a little foolish, but unwilling to give up the idea that it might be an adventure, come to whisk him away from his usual life. “Is someone there?”  
  
The movement in the grass stilled abruptly. Rather than removing his suspicion, this redoubled it. He took a tentative step forwards.

“Hello? It’s okay if you’re a fae, or a monster, I won’t be scared.” Len was surprised by how confident he sounded. He’d always thought of himself as a coward. Yet currently, all he felt was excitement, and a burning curiosity. He would have placed the movement as wildlife, but it had stilled when he had called out, as if it understood him. He didn’t think it really could be a fantastical creature, but he operated firmly under the philosophy of there being no harm in covering all options. “I ain’t gonna hurt you, either.”

The grass moved again, and Len bit his lip to stifle his cry of surprise. A figure rose up from behind the grass, drawing up to be just a little taller than him – or it would have been if the figure hadn’t been hunched over on itself, as if protecting something. From what he could make out at this distance, the figure’s skin was a peculiar shade of light green, and the tunic the figure wore was a deep red, and torn in multiple places. The tears were darkened, and he thought he saw beads of mossy green over the paler skin. The figure’s hair was dark.

“Are you alright?” Len asked, taking a small step closer to the figure. The figure swayed back for a moment, and then went still again, tense and coiled. The person – he’d think of them as a person for now, whether they were indeed a fae, or an alien – reminded him a little of a cornered rabbit. Tense, terrified, but not dangerous in anything other than unintentional fear. “You can call me Len.”

“Spock.” The person’s voice was strangely hoarse, and sounded worryingly pained. The figure looked up at last, and Len could see them fully. The robe was tied by a dark sash, and their eyes were a deep, arresting brown, filled with caution and distress. “Help.” The word was absent of expectation, almost entirely hopeless, and despite attempting reasonable caution, Len found he physically could not keep himself from acting.

He ran over to the person – Spock – and took hold of his shoulders gently. Spock’s frame was alarmingly slight.

“Of course I’ll help you!” Len exclaimed, though he was unprepared for Spock to sag into him in response. He carefully knelt, letting Spock’s body lie half over his thighs, for the first time getting a good look at them.

Spock’s eyebrows were slanted sharply, and their right wrist, which they had been sheltering, was far askew of any possible normal range. Green blood seeped into the red fabric, and now he was closer, he noticed how Spock’s lips were cracked and bleeding too. Something bad had happened to Spock, and Len was willing to bet that this alien had simply come as far as possible before collapsing entirely.

“I need you to tell me what to-“ Len began, and then Spock’s undamaged hand reached up to his temple, and the world around him went white.

* * *

_Len was falling, tumbling into nothingness, into a brightness so overwhelming that he barely noticed it fading until he could make out an older figure, similar to Spock, with a harsh gaze and black tattoos swirling across their features. The tattooed alien leaned in, and Len screamed in pain as his back was lashed, hearing Spock’s voice coming from his mouth. He looked down, and saw green-tinted skin on his chest, realised that in this, somehow, he was Spock._

_The scene dissolved, replaced by him – them, in Spock’s body – crouching by a door, listening intently as the tattooed man spoke. Somehow, Len knew the tattooed alien was a man named Nero. He knew, he realised, because Spock knew. Just as he now knew that Spock was utterly ashamed of himself for running, despite the memory from before. Len heard Nero speaking in a strange language that he understood through Spock, ordering for a trade ship rendezvous – with Earth traders._

_Len saw fragments of stowing away inside an unused airlock, of falling onto the ground from a moving shuttle, breaking his wrist. Of stumbling through long grass that tangled around his weak limbs until he fell, shivering, only to be brought back to himself by the sound of a distant voice reciting the human wrist bones, so similar to his own Vulcan ones and yet differently named._

* * *

 

Len gasped, opened his eyes, and felt Spock’s hand fall back away from his face.  
  
“What the hell was that?” Len knew, though. That had been a meld, one where Spock had simply projected the relevant memories to communicate the urgency of the situation. Spock was a young Vulcan boy, on the run from Nero, who for some reason had kept him prisoner, and – Len blinked. “Why do you think you deserved it? How in the hell could you possibly have deserved this? Y’ain’t older than me, an’ I’m only fifteen! There ain’t a thing you could possibly have done to deserve it, Spock!”

“Apologies.” Spock whispered, his voice quiet. “Emotional transference is a side-effect of the meld. In some minutes, you should no longer feel the guilt.”  
  
“Oh yeah? An’ how about you, genius?” Len snapped, shifting so he was holding Spock like one might a young child. “C’mon. Whoever you are, you need medical attention. Lucky for you, my dad’s a Doctor, an’ I can borrow his kit.”

Spock was silent, blinking at Len confusedly. Len stood, with some effort, and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’m helpin’. Obviously. Now look here, you. I ain’t gonna tell anyone you’re here. But at some point, you’re gonna have to explain a hell of a lot better’n that weird meld thing. ‘Cause that was confusing as fuck, an’ I reckon I only picked up on less’n half of what I ought. Got it?”  
  
Spock nodded, still staring at Len in bewildered desperation. “Where are we going?”  
  
“To our old barn. Then I’m gonna borrow my dad’s healin’ supplied, an’ we’re gonna get you fixed up.” Len said, determined. He unlocked the gate with one hand, and let it swing open – he’d take the fall for that later. They arrived at the barn on the edge of the McCoy property within twenty feet of Len’s reading tree, and Len kicked open the door, laying Spock down carefully on a bale of old hay. “You just wait right here for me.”  
  
Spock didn’t respond, but curled in on himself again, cradling his broken wrist. Len closed the barn door behind him, and took a deep breath, still trying to untangle the confusion of the memories he had been shown. He was able to pick up on the basic emotions experienced, and the visual and auditory stimuli, but other, more general knowledge was a struggle. He took a breath, and squared his shoulders to head back home to collect the medical kit. Curiosity could wait. His patient came before everything – even his own fears.

* * *

 

“There, all done. As best as I can do, anyhow.” Len releases Spock’s wrist, and studiously ignored Spock’s flinch as he has to carry his hand’s weight again. “My next prescription is gonna be food, water and rest. You should be able to stay here, for a while at least.”  
  
Len tucked the medical case back inside his satchel, and removes a small stasis-box, that he clicked open. Spock watched in fascination as Len removed some bread, cheese, cured meat, peaches and blueberries, and laid them out next to Spock on the hay bale. Next came the water, in a large bottle. Spock snatched it up as soon as it was laid down, and drained almost half of it before putting it down. Len grinned as Spock pokes at the blueberries, and the look of surprised pleasure on his face when he tasted it. His look of outright disgust at the meat slices made Len laugh aloud, and Spock raised an eyebrow at him, but otherwise didn’t seem to mind.

Eventually, Spock was finished with the food, and he turned to focus properly on Len. Len shifted, so he sat cross-legged on the bale, but facing Spock in turn.

“You don’t have to tell me everything right now, y’know.” Len offered, with a soft smile. “Your prescription does include rest.”  
  
“You have been very kind to me. I owe you an explanation. Once I tell you everything, please know you are free to send me away. I would understand.” Spock spoke seriously, and Len glared, then immediately stopped because it made Spock look away uncomfortably.

“Look, trust me, I ain’t gonna kick you out. No matter what I hear. As of meetin’ you, you’re my patient, and you’re under my care. So enough with the guilt, an’ more with the explaining!” Len tried to keep the frustration out of his voice, though he was sure he wasn’t entirely successful.

“Yes.” Spock nodded, and seemed to brace himself, his expression falling away from him, leaving a cool mask. “My name is Spock. I am a dangerous criminal, kept imprisoned and punished by my only remaining victim; Nero.”  
  
Len felt his mouth open of its own accord, but before he could speak, Spock frowned at him, and he fell silent.

“My crime was the failure to save the planet Romulus from destruction. As a result, I am responsible for the death of an entire species, of which Nero was the only survivor. As punishment for this, I was created. I am the designated avatar for the Spock who lives inside the time-stream; I pay for his crimes in his stead until the Spock within the time-stream is no longer needed. As we are identical clones, it is fitting.”  
  
“Spock, I don’t even know where to start…” Len trailed off, horrified.

“I shall depart-“ Spock began to stand, and Len grabbed his elbow and all but shoved him back onto the hay bale.

“Give me a chance, will you? Honestly, heaven preserve me from self-sacrificing idiots!” Len stood, jumping off the bale and pacing up and down, unable to keep still under the strange tale Spock has told. “There’s a lot to get through here, so let’s handle how the hell this works first of all. When did this even happen? I didn’t know there is even a planet called Romulus.”

“It has not yet been discovered. Nero, and my self who is within the time-stream, originate from an alternate universe, in the future. The Spock who committed this act, was over 100 years old and continues to age even now. I was created from him when Nero emerged into this time-stream; fourteen years ago.”

“Right, what was I thinking? Of course there’s time travel. Good god, Spock!” Len exclaimed, his arms gesturing wildly as he struggled for a grip on some semblance of sanity. “Don’t you see how ridiculous this is? Well, no, why would you? Hell, you’ve been brought up on it, I guess.”

“You do not believe me.” Spock sounded flat, disappointed.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s just, well. It’s a hell of a lot to believe, Spock. I mean, Romulus? Cloning? Time travel?” Len made a concerted effort to control himself, and sat down next to Spock, turning to face him. “But regardless of whether I believe it or not, there’s something that’s real important about your story.”  
  
“What?” Spock frowned, clearly curious now, rather than purely upset.

“Everythin’ about that tale you told me, that story you’ve been fed by Nero – true or not? It doesn’t mean you’re even a single speck to blame. It ain’t your fault, Spock. None of it.” Len kept his tone gentle, earnest. Spock refused to meet his eyes.

“You did not listen! I, Spock, allowed an entire species to die!”  
  
“But that wasn’t you! That was your future self, a man over six times your age – not you. You are a clone of him, sure, but your whole life you’ve been punished, and hurt, and takin’ the blame, for that man’s crimes. His actions aren’t yours – you’re not the person you were created from, don’t you see?” Len felt his voice rise, but was unable to stop it, his indigence at the bitter injustice of the story – true or not – bleeding through into his voice.

“I…will give your points due consideration.” Spock said, quietly, his dark eyes examining Len in a way that made him feel stripped entirely of his outer walls.

“Yeah, you damn well better.” Len said, his emotions subsiding into a knot of frustration and concern in his stomach. “Besides, the guy decided to torture a younger version of the criminal, rather’n literally any other option? That sure as fuck doesn’t sound like a person I’d trust to tell me the damn truth about somethin’. You gotta understand, Spock. There ain’t a single thing that would excuse how he’s treated you – judging by that meld thing. It’s not your responsibility to answer for the supposed crimes of your future self. And frankly, I ain’t inclined to believe a single spin Nero put on any of those events, even if I thought they were possibly true.”  
  
Len took a moment to consider the situation, desperately rationalising until he reached a conclusion.

“Nero – he looked awfully like a Vulcan to me. You know what I reckon?” Spock shook his head, although Len had meant the question to be rhetorical. “I reckon Nero is some kind of Vulcan criminal. And he took you, as a kid, brought you up on this ridiculous fantasy so you would feel too guilty to run. An’ that, now, that makes sense, in a twisted kinda way.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Spock conceded, though he did not look convinced. Len supposed it would have taken a lot to convince him of it, too, if he’d been brought up to believe in something else.

“Well, anyhow, you’d best get yourself some rest.” Len said, decisively.  “We can handle how to approach this whole bundle of ridiculous later. When you’re feelin’ better and I’ve gotten this stuff back to the house.” Len gathered up the items he had come with, and moved to the door. He paused, and looked back over his shoulder at Spock. He had curled up again, protecting his vital organs. The posture seemed so ingrained, instinctive, and it made Len hate the alien named Nero with all his heart. “Hey, Spock. You’d best still be here in the mornin’. You’re my patient, you hear me? No runnin’. I don’t blame you for jack.”  
  
Spock blinked at him with tired, wide eyes. “Thank you for your assistance.” Spock hesitated, and Len tried to seem encouraging. “You seemed…in distress, earlier.”

“Yeah, well, that’s what tends to happen when someone tries to make you be somethin’ you’re not.” Len shrugged, uncomfortably. “I don’t wanna be like how I’m supposed to. I wanna be me. It’s kinda less of an issue than yours, so don’t worry about it, ok?”  
  
“I do not think it wise to assign a scale to suffering.” Spock said, simply.

“Spock – look. I get that ya mean well an’ all, but this is my issue. It’s my fault, for being who I am. I couldn’t help it if I wanted to, but…it’s my fault.”  
  
“I believe earlier you were lecturing me on apportioning blame unwisely.” Spock sounded fainter now, his eyes flickering shut gradually. Len rolled his eyes.

“Quit tryin’ ta lecture me back, an’ get some goddamn sleep.”  
  
Len sighed, and stepped outside, taking a moment to brace himself for the undoubtedly cool reception for him at his house. Images of another world flashed behind his eyelids. He squared his shoulders, and marched towards the porch light determinedly. He’d just done his best to heal a stray Vulcan on the run from a dangerous, possibly time-travelling criminal, and said Vulcan had attempted – sleepily and clumsily, admittedly – to tell him he was not at fault, despite knowing little of his situation. What were angry parents in the face of that?


End file.
